


The Popcorn Incident

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Series: Blair's Food Series by Kitipurr [2]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Humor, Other: See Story Notes, Plot What Plot, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 08:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Megan rambles about another Blair-in-the-bullpen food-related situation.  NOTE:  You DON'T have to read FROZEN to follow this, but it might help.  Also, some spoilers for FROZEN.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Popcorn Incident

 

## The Popcorn Incident

by Kitipurr

Not mine, don't own 'em, woe is me. Petfly is evil for keeping them from me.  
And as of today we're up to 18 foster cats in the house, in case you're counting.  
Adopt a homeless pet from a shelter, don't buy from a breeder, spay and neuter, don't breed your pet. PLEASE!!!!!!

Not entirely based on an idea that came to me while eating a bag of FritoLay Smartfood White Cheddar Reduced Fat popcorn (which is COMPTELELY ADDICTIVE) and looking at the picture you can find here: http://www.wolfpanther.com/images/Blair03.jpg

To reiterate, you do NOT have to have read FROZEN for this to make sense, but it may provide some insight into Megan's thoughts. Reading this before reading FROZEN may spoil part of the fun of reading FROZEN. Then again, perhaps not.

This story is a sequel to: Frozen

* * *

The Popcorn Incident

What is it about Blair Sandburg and food?

You've probably already heard about Simon's fit the other day about the Popsicle. Given, he'd apparently asked Blair not to eat Popsicles at the station several times already, and Sandy kept forgetting. So, after last week's incident, Simon actually wrote a quasi-official memo to our favorite observer reiterating the effects his Popsicles have on the bullpen.

I say 'quasi-official' because there is no way Simon can ever make it official without the upper levels asking a lot of questions. And trust me, our staid and serious Captain does NOT want to explain to his superiors that watching Sandy eat a Popsicle gives him a woody.

Now, after yesterday, Simon may never allow Sandy to eat anything ever again in his presence. I can understand myself. After yesterday's episode... well, let's just say that the resulting masturbatory session when I got home resulted in a broken vibrator and a desperate need to replenish my scented oils.

I have GOT to get laid.

So, about yesterday, you ask? What on god's earth was the boy doing that sent Simon into a complete conniption fit? Pickles, maybe? A banana, perhaps? Some other equally phallic foodstuff? Ah, no. Yesterday, we learned that finger foods in general are diabolical at the command of our erstwhile anthropologist. In this case, popcorn. Well, at least a particular brand of white cheddar flavored reduced fat popcorn...

Smartstuff? Smartsnack? Something like that. Trust Blair to eat a 'healthy' junk food. Well, relatively, anyway - I read the sodium content on the package and yeeks! Anyway, it's popcorn, you know? Simple, tasty but kind of boring, nothing abnormal. But watching Sandy eat it was like a lesson in the art of advanced seduction.

And the worst part is that he doesn't know he does it, and he doesn't do it on purpose.

Henri actually cried when Blair tossed the empty bag, and Rafe (bending VERY stiffly) retrieved it from the garbage - I caught him sniffing it later as though it were the world's most precious rose... or possibly some kind of narcotic. Jim didn't move from his chair for well over an hour. At one point (just after) I check on him to make sure he wasn't zoned, but he grunted something under his breath about his inability to move from the waist down and waved me off. Even Joel, who usually seems immune to the unbelievable levels of Sandburg charm, was... well, a bit... sweaty.

What is it about Sandy and food? I mean, the boy's tasty to look at, no two ways about it - short, energetic perfection in an exotically masculine beauty that both screams sensual femininity and powerful macho stud all at the same time. I've seen the guy without his shirt, and he's pretty buff under all that flannel. Not Jim-Ellison-I-eat-steel-for-lunch buff, not the hard-and-ripped kind that most guys on the force might achieve it they hit the gym for an hour to equal every doughnut they inhale, but a slightly softer yet very virile kind of shape. The shape that says "I can fuck you into next Tuesday so hard your eyes cross, but I can cuddle too." Oh yeah, Blair's every woman's fantasy - hot sex and plenty of afterwards snuggling.

That's why he's so damn popular with all the ladies. For that matter not a few of the guys have I noticed eyeing him up and down while their little manly brains try to figure out if appreciating Sandy's absolute exquisiteness makes them limp-wristed faggots, or if it is simply an affirmation of how the male of the species can transcend the normal human form into a higher plane of... oh, god, I'm getting all Shakespeare and Milton here.

Why is it that guys question their masculinity if they notice another guy is good looking? Most men I know have a problem with two guys getting it on, however they get all hot and bothered by the idea of two women doing each other. Especially if they can watch. Now given, most of the guys in MC, and a good percentage of the guys at the station in general, are 'modern' guys who can accept that homosexuality exists and that gay men and women are perfectly capable cops and can be good friends, partners, etc. But god help them if they think for even one moment that THEY might have a homosexual urge.

Which is why Blair Sandburg both beguiles and scares the crap out of so many of the men at the station. Rhonda and I had a lovely chat about it over lunch once - how Sandy's appearance is so erotic in some ways that it's like seeing a Victoria's Secret model in her work clothes. It's just hard to keep your eyes from wandering... and the brain from wondering. And he affects both sexes equally, which really drives some of the men crazy.

But now, I'm rambling, aren't I? My point was... well, most people, once they've hung around Sandy enough, get over the drool factor. I suppose it's like anything of beauty - once you've been in its presence enough, you develop a... well, tolerance doesn't sound right, makes him sound like a drug. Immunity isn't right either, because if that were the case the whole Popcorn Incident wouldn't have happened, right? Resistance? Maybe. I think of it in terms of... well, like a vaccine. A vaccine exposes you to a disease so you won't be so susceptible to it later. Did I just compare Blair to a disease? No, no, no, didn't mean that...

Well, certainly didn't think it would be so hard to make my point. I like to think of it in terms of, say, a majestic mountainscape at sunset. You know the kind - people take award-winning artistic photographs of it that eventually become a souvenir postcard that you put on your refrigerator. The people who LIVE near that amazing picturesque view don't necessarily lose their appreciation for its magnificence, but after a few months of seeing it every day, they... well, they get used to it. Take it for granted, even.

Anyway, my POINT is that sometimes something comes along to remind you that you should be completely in awe of that beauty, to say 'HEY! Remember how amazing this is! How lucky you are to have experienced it!' Like a lightning storm over those mountains while the sky is still lit - brilliant bolts of sizzling electricity spearing down into the snowy caps while the sky is an array of pink and orange and blue and purple. Something that catches your breath in your throat and reminds you that the splendor of that view is a marvel of nature and God, and that you shouldn't forgot how absolutely astoundingly blessed you are to bare witness to it on a daily basis.

Like watching Blair Sandburg eating a Popsicle.

Or a bag of Smart-whatever white cheddar reduced fat popcorn.

Okay, I know what your thinking. How in hell can anybody be sexually exciting eating popcorn while wearing scruffy, baggy blue jeans, a tee at least three washes past it's funeral date, and a faded dark blue flannel button-up that's missing at least two buttons and looks like it was a hand-me-down from Ellison? Let me describe the scene to you, eh mates?

Picture it: you know what he was wearing. Hardly a Rafe-style GQ look, but not quite vagabond; more worn, warm, welcoming, relaxed. Approachable. Now, his hair was down, those luscious curls swaying in the breeze created by the fan on Whitmore's desk (at just four months along, that is one persistently hot pregnant woman!). The light through Simon's office window, filtered by the inner office glass, gave those sumptuous curls a golden-red glow that bathed his whole head in a fiery light - it was almost otherworldly.

And he was sitting in his chair, hunched over the computer keyboard, studying the screen intently, like it would unlock the mysteries of the universe if only he concentrated hard enough. Personally, I think it's amazing how he can focus on something so completely like that, to the point where he's in his own zone not too unlike Jim's blank outs.

Anyway, the light from the screen was bathing his face with that ethereal radiance as only a computer monitor can, giving his slightly tanned, aristocratically European complexion a luminosity that begged one to test the idea that if all the electricity were to suddenly go out and pitch us into darkness, Sandy's face would shine brightly enough that we could all keep on going like nothing had happened. But I digress...

He was wearing his glasses, of course, which in my opinion only adds to his attractiveness - I think they soften his face somehow, making him look wise beyond his years. He is, you know - extremely wise - considering he's also retained a certain naivet... god knows how, working with Jim, getting kidnapped and shot at and threatened with knives and blow torches and spiders and then drowned and... well, you get my point.

Lordy, I do ramble on, don't I? Just... well, thinking about it gets me all day-dreamy again... and not a little bit aroused, but I'm getting to that. So I've set the scene. Fairly normal, typical: Blair Sandburg looking resplendent and average all at the same time. And Henri and Rafe and Joel and I, along with several other detectives, are all at our desks puttering about on our reports.

It had been a pretty dull day all around, which we certainly were NOT complaining about. No weird murders or crazed university students or alligators in the ventilation shafts, no sir. Just good old American paperwork and lots of it - your country certainly thrives on its beauracracy, doesn't it?

Big Jim was busy reading a file, sprawled back in a chair near the same desk where Sandy was working, looking pretty fine himself in a tight blue tee and even tighter chinos - the man does know how to dress to show off his well-maintained physique. Of course, the light in the office doesn't quite provide the effect on Jim's features that it does on Sandy's, but I think that's again just another Sandburg bonus... not a dig on Jim.

So we were all working, things were quiet all around, and Blair absently pulls out a bag of this popcorn. A BIG bag, I might add, considering it technically qualified as junk food and that goes against all the laws of Blair. But there he was, big black bag of snack on his desk. He popped open a can of Coke that magically appeared from somewhere and opened the bag, all without actually removing his eyes from the monitor.

How, you ask, would I know this? Because I was staring aimlessly at him while trying to figure out another way to phrase 'stupid ass snot punk' that would get my point across without softening the intent of my statement. So I witnessed this whole thing.

From the very first bite, I knew this was going to be trouble. Sandy reached into the bag and grabbed just a pair of kernels - light, white fluffy clouds trapped between his fingers. Ah, Sandy's fingers: not long or elegant or slender, no concert pianist's digits or artistic endeavors. No, Sandy's fingers are average, not too fat or short nor skinny or anything. Just capable, sturdy, reliable; able to articulate thoughts without being too wild or uncontrolled, and pretty damn fast on a computer keyboard.

But holding those few pieces of popcorn, those fingers was so captivating... it was like he was holding something fragile and irreplaceable, rather than a mundane everyday corner deli snack. I watched, fascinated as he brought those kernels to his lips - slowly, as though time had slowed, and I was allowed to see every millimeter his fingers moved through the air.

God, those lips. Let me TELL you about Sandy's lips. First of all, they're framed in that face of his with its angular cheeks and rounded jaw - no weak jaw, that one. No matter how recently the boy has shaved, he looks like it will only be another half hour before he needs a touch up; I've always loved that perpetually 'shadowed' look he has to him.

And in the midst of this strong and carved jaw line region sit these two plump, pink lips that just beg to be plundered and made love to. The little cleft between his lips and that adorable nose of his is more profound that some people's, adding a distinctiveness of character and helping to define those fabulous lips... can you just picture what he can do with those lips!!!

Hold on a second... there, a little ice in the right spot just does the trick, doesn't it? So I was saying... he brought those pieces of popcorn to his totally edible lips and his little rosy tongue slipped out to snag one, then the other, drawing those puffy clouds in like a lover to bed. And when the last kernel was liberated from those beautiful fingers, one finger hesitated at his lips, teasing his tongue as he carefully removed all traces of the white cheddar flavoring powder that remained behind. Each of the fingers involved in the delivery of the popcorn was given an equally loving caress with that tongue, a delicate suck from those lips...

I felt my heart quicken to a seriously rapid pace.

Jim must have heard my sudden pulse-increase, because his head jerked up and his eyes darted to me in concern. Irritating as he can be, I love that Jim is so tuned in to the people around him, and the worry in my sudden shift in respiratory status was visible. Then he followed my gaze (probably noting my pupils were dilated, I'm sure) and he became very VERY still. Not to mention slightly slack-jawed... and I think he was panting.

The two of us watched silently as Blair continued to dance his tongue over his fingers after each and every bite, to brush his fingers lightly with his lips after every morsel. Every piece slipped over his lips into his mouth with the same dramatic effect I imagine when I picture Cleopatra feeding grapes to Anthony in her seduction of the Roman warrior. And as the pieces got smaller and the powder remains got heavier, things only got more... erotic. More sucking, more nibbling, more tongue, more lips... I knew long before he hit the crumbly remains at the bottom of the bag that I was going to have to make a trip to the ladies and then to the lockers for a change of panties.

When I managed to occasionally shift my glance to Jim, I knew he might be making a trip to the lockers for more than just new underwear.

That was when I took a glance around and realized that, once again, without trying even a little, our favorite sidekick had the undivided attention of everyone in the bullpen, not to mention the danish-cart girl in the main doorway, who was as wide-eyed and drooling as I've ever seen anyone. Even Rafe, who is as straight as they come and almost as controlling, was absently rubbing at his groin with a look of tortured ecstasy on his face.

Henri was nearly white - a feat considering his coloring, and Joel was... well, I've never quite seen the big man that close to his desk before. Henderson was obviously biting his tongue, Georgette Miller was so flushed she resembled a plum, and Whitmore looked surprisingly sated. (I learned later that sometimes during the first six months of pregnancy, a woman can orgasm by visual stimulus alone - and Sandy got to her three times! Who would have thought the Amazonian Witch was so quiet during sex?..)

To top off the entire tableau, Simon was standing in his office doorway, fanning himself and OBVIOUSLY hard. The man may wear loose dress slacks most of the time, but it was WAY to easy to just size, shape and solidity at that moment.

The bullpen was completely silent except for the sound of Nancy's fan and Sandy's typing. And the boy hadn't even noticed. You gotta love him.

There was this long moment at the end where no one did anything or said anything... hell, or MOVED... Then Sandy balled up the empty bag and made a very nice shot over the desk into the waste basket next to Henri before he got up and headed to the loo, unaware that the world around him had been put on pause by his unconscious command.

Blessedly oblivious, our observer. But only to his effect on others. Completely unaware that Rhonda had practically had kittens just FEET from him, that his partner was staring cross-eyed at the file so conspicuously placed over his crotch, and that nearly everyone in the room - except those who suffer from lockjaw - were drooling on their desks.

His exit took the pause button off and we all attempted to refocus... on what we were doing, on our computers, our files, our BREATHING... Simon turned and moved - VERY stiffly - back into his office where he hid for at least an hour before we saw or even heard him again. By then Sandy had vanished off to the University, and Jim Ellison was turning purple trying to lower his own blood pressure.

Have I mentioned that Ellison is completely in love with his totally clueless roommate? It's just so cute.

Anyway, no one's said anything - not even Simon - but you have to wonder when there's going to be some kind of fallout. I mean, there had to be twenty minutes there at least where the entire MC division took a complete mental powder while we creamed ourselves watching our police observer eat popcorn. I can't imagine there won't be SOME kind of repercussions. But then, how can Simon do anything when the kid doesn't even realize just how sensual he is? You can't punish someone for being themselves.

Lord, Ellison must live in hell. In love with the man, having to spend every day exposed to that sensuousness in its most base forms, and not being able to act on it...

...Sandy just out of the shower, hair damp, wearing nothing but a towel...

...Sandy on the basketball court in his tank top and shorts, slick with sweat...

...Sandy alight in the glow of their fireplace, lounging in that pair of skin-tight black jeans he has, one of his rugby shirts showing JUST enough chest to tease, barefoot, those blue eyes glistening...

...Sandy eating grapes...

Jim must whack off thirty-five times a day.

I wonder what Sandy looks like eating chocolate fondue and strawberries...

hmm...

**END**

* * *

End The Popcorn Incident by Kitipurr: meow9x@aol.com

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount.


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